


sickness isn't synonymous with weakness

by military_bluebells



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Stay Frosty, M/M, Ray's Allergies, Sickfic, The Iceman Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/military_bluebells/pseuds/military_bluebells
Summary: Ray wasn’t bitching or whining. Brad wished that he would because a problem with Ray, was always worse when he was quiet.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77





	sickness isn't synonymous with weakness

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of my one month anniversary on AO3, I give you my favourite of all the fics I've written so far.

Apart from the group of naked Iraqis they found - three executed and the rest either farmers or lying Republican Guard - the day’s ride was uneventful. The Humvee was still tense, Reporter’s questions tapering off, leaving them in silence. Brad'd made Walt and Trombley switch not long after the incident at the roadblock. Walt was silent, sitting behind Ray, with his M-16 on his lap instead of propped out the window. Brad should reprimand him, but the light was fading, and by his maps they were close to where they were setting up camp for the night. 

Ray was ranting again, but Brad tuned him out, staring at the fading sun as it cast long shadows over the sand dunes. He narrowed his eyes at an outcrop hidden in them. There wasn’t any movement, so Brad moved his eyes to the next one. He tuned back into Ray’s rant and couldn’t really pick up the point he was even ranting about. 

He turned his head and watched Ray out of the corner of his eye. Back before Brad had voluntarily chosen to share a Humvee with one of the most purposefully annoying corporals in the whole of 1st Recon, he wouldn’t have known there were differences in Ray’s rants. He watched Ray’s movements carefully, taking in the lack of arm gestures, the fast but weighted movement of his lips, the lack of jabs aimed to include him or Walt. 

Ray was just talking. 

Brad glanced up at his eyes and swallowed. Ray would joke about him being the Iceman - unfeeling and cold - but Brad guessed that Ray had never seen that look he got in his eyes sometimes. 

They looked dull, not empty yet, but that was sure to come. He’d seen a glimpse of it in Afghanistan; the cold, empty void that Person’s brown eyes became instead of warm irises, somehow lit from the inside. 

The Humvee bumped over a hole in the road, one that Ray definitely should have seen. Brad turned back to his sector, leaving the issue well alone until he had plan. 

* * *

They came to a stop just after twenty-two hundred hours local time. Brad stepped out of the Humvee and looked across the swamp flanking them. There was a blown-out tank two-hundred metres out, but that was the only significant thing in the area. Trombley disappeared for a shit, Walt pacing out of the Humvee to wander somewhere and Reporter talking to Nate, leaving Brad alone with Ray. 

“Ray, help me with this.” Brad said, tugging at the canopy. “Huh,” Ray mumbled, looking up from where he’d been sitting, half out of the Humvee, leant forward with his elbows on his knees. 

“Help me with this.” Brad repeated patiently. Ray blinked, rubbing at his eyes before nodding, looking almost drunk. He stood, wobbling on his feet, and walked over to Brad. 

Brad watched him as they unravelled the canopy, stretching it out to provide some sort of cover. Ray kept rubbing at his eyes and coughing fitfully. Brad stabbed the poles into the sand and secured them, tying the strings tight. 

“Allergies?” 

Ray huffed, “Yeah.” 

Brad looked up from the ground at Ray, who rubbed at his eyes like a toddler, “How bad?” 

Ray shrugged, coughing into a fist. Brad nodded, if Person wasn’t taking the opportunity to vouch for sympathy in a loud overexaggerated rant, it was bad. 

“Have you spoken to Doc Bryan?” 

Ray laughed, scratchily, “Fuck no. Half the guys in our platoon have the shits homes, I’ve just got a cough.” Ray rubbed one last time at his eyes before about facing, grabbing a trenching tool. 

“The lack of constant ear-splitting, pansy ass whining to the contrary.” Brad pointed out softly. 

Ray threw his hands up, “What do you want from me Colbert, everyone feels like shit, I’m not fucking special.” The words were sharp, no teasing lit in any of them. Ray was staring at him, daring him to say something. Brad didn’t rise to the bait: that was what Ray always did, deflect and avoid, through any means necessary. It seemed they were down to provoking fights now. 

Things may be worse than Brad first thought. 

Ray turned back to digging his ranger grave when Brad didn’t respond, practically stabbing his way through the sand. He was coiled like a snake, ready to strike at any moment. 

Brad sighed when he saw Walt approaching, sorrowful air following him like a shadow. 

Walt came to a stop just outside of the canopy, took one look at Ray - who’d made pretty good progress on his grave - and looked straight to Brad. Walt got the answer to his question and Brad’s silent request and disappeared off again. 

Brad sighed again. One fucked-up marine at a time. 

“Brad if you sigh again, I’m going to hit you with this shovel.” 

Brad flicked his eyes to Ray, his back still turned. He should start on his own grave, but if he didn’t crack Ray first, he wouldn’t get any fucking sleep. Brad decided, getting up, that he’d leave Ray to finish digging. He went around their little camp, the sound of men throwing up and groaning audible everywhere, silently glad that no one in his victor had the shits. They had enough problems already. 

He found Trombley on the other side of their Humvee, gleefully cleaning his gun. Like the psycho he was, Ray would say. Trombley’s head popped up like a little bloodthirsty puppy as Brad neared him, 

“Trombley, I need you to take first watch, we’re on twenty-five percent so when Walt gets back from wherever the fuck he’s gone, tell him to get some sleep. Wake me up for second shift.” 

Trombley nodded, “Yes, Sergeant.” 

Ray'd squared the corners of his grace and lay on his back, a pack shoved under his head to substitute a pillow. Brad stood over him and Ray squinted up at him. 

“Brad, unless you’re going to kill me, fuck off.” 

Brad ignored the comment and crouched, moving to sit by Ray’s head, planting his boots by Ray’s side. He leant forward and pressed the back of his hand to Ray’s forehead. Instead of whining or smacking Brad’s hand away, Ray just slumped back, closing his eyes. 

The skin under his hand was clammy and a little warm but not overly so. He moved his hand to Ray’s cheek - the unscarred one - which was warm as well. 

“How bad Ray?” Brad asked firmly. Ray sighed but the fight that had been in him earlier had dissipated, leaving only tiredness. 

“Well, I’ve been scratching my eyes out, my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a sandstorm, and the pressure at the front of my head is making me want to shoot myself.” 

Brad hummed and shuffled to sit by Ray’s head, press one thumb to Ray’s temples. Ray sighed, leaning back further into the touch. Brad smirked to himself and brought his other hand to the same position on the other side of Ray’s head. Ray moaned a little, relaxing further as Brad rubbed small circles into Ray’s temples. 

“Helping?” Brad half asked with a smirk. 

Ray’s face slacked and his eyes flickered shut but not before he shot back, “Homes, I would gladly suck your dick if you keep doing what you’re doing.” 

Brad leaned in close for just a second, just to hit back quietly, “You suck my dick anyway.” 

Ray opened one eye and smirked up at him, biting his lip. He was probably trying for sexy, but his face was too relaxed and sleepy looking. Brad snorted and brushed his thumb along Ray’s hairline, pressing just hard enough at his temple for Ray to meowl slightly, arching his back a little. 

“ _Fuck_ Brad,” Ray said breathily. Brad hummed and started to pull his hands back regretfully. They could play gay in front of the men, exchange sloppy hand jobs in secrecy, and the one time Ray had sucked him off at Matilda, but they needed to be careful out in the open like this where it was obvious they weren’t putting on a show. It didn’t help that Ray was moaning, and Brad hadn’t had time for a combat jack in the past week. 

“Wait, no, that was good.” Ray whined. Brad flicked Ray’s nose; he would have smacked his head but that wasn’t going to help the headache. 

“Ray.” Brad said sternly and Ray sighed, understanding. Ray shuffled onto his side and Brad grabbed his blanket, draping it over Ray’s one. 

“Tucking me in babe?” Ray said cheekily. Brad rolled his eyes but looked around. There was no one around, so he bent, pressing a brief kiss to Ray’s forehead. When he pulled back, Ray was smiling softly, halfway to sleep. 

“Damn, you _are_ Big Gay Brad.” Ray said with awe. 

“Go the fuck to sleep, you inbred cousin fucker.” 

Brad got up before Ray could say anything, wandering off to find Doc Bryan. Brad needed his RTO combat effective. He passed Walt who was asleep, resting his head on his pack, and Trombley, who nodded at Brad as he passed. 

Brad found Doc with Team 2, treating Chaffin in his grave, Manimal standing off to the side. He could see Christeson throwing up not to far away, Q-tip rubbing his back. 

Doc looked up warily. “Don’t tell me your teams down too,” 

“No, just Person’s allergies,” Brad said. Doc sighed, routing through his pack before throwing Brad a small box. 

“Antihistamines,” Doc said, “make sure he doesn’t overdose.” Was tacked on the end, in a longsuffering tone. Brad just nodded, patting Rudy on the shoulder as he passed him. 

“I’m sure Ray will be fine, brother.” Rudy said, smiling at him. 

Brad huffed, “Things will be better when I don’t have him bitching about his head.” 

Ray was still asleep when Brad got back to the Humvee. Brad dismissed Trombley, who curled in the Humvee and went straight to sleep. Brad went back to Ray’s grave and shook him awake with only a little bit of guilt. Ray would bitch less once he had his medicine. 

“What?” Ray slurred, blinking his eyes open, which looked sore, rimmed with red and vivid bags. 

Brad broke two pills out of the plastic and held them out to Ray, “Medicine.” 

Ray took them without another word, popping them in his mouth. Brad held out a bottle of water before Ray could swallow them dry: it wouldn’t do his throat any good. Ray accepted the bottle, taking a large swig. Brad watched Ray’s throat work and then Ray caught his eyes. 

Ray opened his mouth like a toddler, “See all gone,” he said in a high-pitched voice. 

Brad grinned, “Go back to sleep Ray,” 

Ray huffed and wrestled his pack into the position he wanted, dropping his head back on it, facing Brad. Brad tucked the blankets around Ray’s shoulder before picking up his M-16 and twisting to face out into the large expanse of land behind them. 

Ray’s breathing evened out behind him and Brad smiled to himself and shifted into a more comfortable position, camped out inches from Ray’s side.


End file.
